Fug or Fab: Agyness Deyn

Hot on the heels of a high seeding in the 2009 Fug Madness contest for everything she wore in the past 12 months, Agyness Deyn showed up at a Valentino event with a sleeker style than usual:

The hair is a huge improvement. And I love giant shiny clutch purses. But the dress itself... I can't decide if it's throwback glam, or some old stodgy thing that a depressed and jealous politician, or politician's wife, would wear to the Inaugural Ball. In 1989. And I may never understand the appeal of chain necklaces that long -- all I envision when I see them is a very long night of walking around the party and getting my business flogged by a very expensive whip.

Fugyness Deyn

Wow. I hope model Agyness Deyn's 15 minutes are ticking to an end, because I am seriously, seriously over this ass clown:

[Photo: WENN]



I mean, COME ON. I'm sure she got this from some designer at London Fashion Week because she walked in his or her show, but Agyness, you don't have to wear all of this stuff for REAL. You treat it like any other pastel nightmare of a Cosby sweater that your grandparents gave you for Christmas: You hold it up, you exclaim something vague and not-entirely-fibbed like, "Oh my, that pattern is so unique," or, "Hooray, you remembered that the circle is my favorite shape," and you might even put it on for an hour in the safe confines of your own home just so they think they've hit a home run -- and then as soon as you're out of their eyeline (or faced with leaving the house), you put it back in the box and think, "Damn, I dodged a bullet there, I am GOOD," and give it to Goodwill. But not before you write a thank-you note saying something about how the design totally changed the way you look at coasters. Now, for the love of God, GO INSIDE, crackmonkey.

Agyfug Deyn

People are always going on and on about the effortless, incomparable-to-mere-mortals style of model Agyness Deyn -- like she's some kind of Chloe Sevigny of the catwalk, and we mere mortals can only DREAM of rolling out of bed every morning as fluent as Agyness is in the language of Awesome.




I will give them the incomprehensible part.

Don't get me wrong, she rocks the runway. But I have come to the conclusion that people really need to stop instructing me to covet her wardrobe. At the end of the day, I just can't help it: I don't want to leave the house in a brutally upholstered shirt whose lapels look like a deflated neck pillow. If I attempted this style I would be shot, skinned, and turned into an ottoman at an old folks' home. Ergo, I will stick to regular things that don't induce migraines in small children, and leave Agyness to run the risk that Bobby Trendy will offer her a job running the mechanical bull at his fine eatery, Cowboy Trendy's Sirloin Factory.